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    Let Me Tell You a Story: A Collection of Writings
    Let Me Tell You a Story: A Collection of Writings
    Let Me Tell You a Story: A Collection of Writings
    Ebook111 pages1 hour

    Let Me Tell You a Story: A Collection of Writings

    By Charles Keith Hardman

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    About this ebook

    Forty years after he wrote his first short story, Charles Keith Hardman shares a collection of diverse tales that explore the unknown, question the future, and create chills.

    A fledgling musician leaves Lubbock, Texas, not really caring where he is headed. As the Texas red clay dust evaporates behind his car, he only knows one thing: he has to leave. But as he pulls into the deserted parking lot of an icehouse, the man has no idea of what he is about to encounter. When a stranger enters Jamestown, he introduces himself to everyone he meetsbut gives different names and details each time. As a ringmaster parades around a circle in an arena, a crowd goes wild, anxious to witness the unknown. A show of energy is unleashed, and the crowd gasps. They can hardly believe what they see.

    Let Me Tell You a Story offers an intriguing compilation of writings that tantalizes the imagination and inspires wonderment at what is truly real in the world and what is not.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchway Publishing
    Release dateMar 6, 2014
    ISBN9781480805491
    Let Me Tell You a Story: A Collection of Writings
    Author

    Charles Keith Hardman

    Charles Keith Hardman grew up watching The Twilight Zone and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour on television and believes there can be no boundary when a writer uses his or her imagination. He has lived in many places, but considers Walnut Creek, California, as his home. This is his fourth book.

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      Book preview

      Let Me Tell You a Story - Charles Keith Hardman

      Copyright © 2014 Charles Keith Hardman.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Archway Publishing books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

      Archway Publishing

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.archwaypublishing.com

      1-(888)-242-5904

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      ISBN: 978-1-4808-0548-4 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4808-0549-1 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2014932203

      Archway Publishing rev. date: 2/19/2014

      Contents

      32195.png

      Introduction

      Crossroads Icehouse

      The Impostor

      Space Fare

      The Devil’s Son

      Let Us Hear It for the Crowd

      It Was a Crazy War

      A Game of Chance

      Gambler

      The Star

      Always Follow Your Leader

      Emotion

      The Session

      Introduction

      32177.png

      I never forgot the stories that I wrote in the early sixties and for some reason I saved them for over forty years. I grew up watching the Twilight Zone and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour on a television that had a round screen that was powered by tubes. All the programs were in black and white and I waited for these shows to air like a heroin addict would look forward to his next fix. I wanted to believe that there was a world that couldn’t be explained by my parents and could not be taught in any school. I wrote some stories that only Science Fiction Magazine and a few mystery magazines might publish at the time. I was a boy in his twenties that no one had ever heard of so I had no chance of anyone taking my writings as serious. I doubt if the magazines that I sent them to even read them. I accepted this fact with understanding and innocence. I wasn’t a Rod Serling or an Alfred Hitchcock. I did save these stories and added a few more. I am now going to edit them to the present day and let the next generation judge them. Nobody expected a future like this one. Read my forty year old stories and rethink what could have been. I wrote these stories because there can be no boundary when a writer uses his or her imagination. There is only the unknown and that is where I am coming from and I hope to find in the future. Let me tell you a story. I don’t think you have heard this one before? Just remember things were different in the sixties. I am editing them from the sixties. Just read them!

      Crossroads Icehouse

      32187.png

      I was driving my lime green Corvair on a long and lonely Texas highway somewhere near the panhandle. I had just been evicted from my apartment in Lubbock. This was actually a godsend. I couldn’t have lived another day there anyway. I tried making a name for myself there by playing guitar and singing in dumps like Mario’s Pizza and Italian Restaurant on weekends and any other place where the owners would pay me to try and bring in the students from the college. Let us just say that I failed to get any appreciation, or anything else for that matter in Lubbock. I had about $75.00 and a jar of change that I had collected from my gigs. If ever the phrase two bit joint applied to a place then I worked it. If it weren’t for the college kids, even those dumps wouldn’t classify as two bit joints. When you are down to working for tips in places that you would avoid most days then I was positive it was time to move on. I knew I had some self-respect left and Lubbock was not going to make me happy.

      I left Lubbock and didn’t really care where I was headed. I just knew that I had to leave. I was glad to see Lubbock in my rear view mirror. I pushed the gas pedal down and watched as the Texas red clay dust evaporated behind me. I was going somewhere. It didn’t matter where, but it had to be better than what I was leaving. Nobody in the music business ever made it big by staying in one place. Especially in a place called Lubbock. I was screaming Fuck It as I pressed the gas pedal down as hard as I could.

      I played the old time blues. I respected the black musicians that created this type of music. They didn’t do it for money, they lived for the music they created. Now it was my turn to live for the blues. I had to move on because I could not make any more music in Lubbock. I was now on the road.

      I looked at the red clay highway in front and behind me and knew it had to be leading me somewhere. Where I had been was just that. I figured that I must be getting close to becoming a bluesman because I had to move on. I think that is what makes a person play the blues. When it is all they have left in life. I pushed the gas pedal down as hard as I could. I never wanted to see what I left behind again. I was free for the first time in my life. Where I was heading was a song that hadn’t been written yet.

      I saw some lights up ahead of me. I took my foot off the gas pedal and slowed down. It was getting dark now and and I was having a hard time focusing on the road. Endless nothing was what people called the roads in North Texas. They labeled them as routes, but they were more like roads to nowhere. They seemed endless. I was on one of them now. I saw white tents ahead. I was sure that they had ice chests filled with cold beer. It was an icehouse. Texas was famous for them. I knew that I had to stop. The icehouse was my next destination.

      I pulled into a parking lot and turned off the ignition. I opened the door and stood on crushed oyster shells. I was nowhere near an ocean, but I knew the smell of one. This was no regular icehouse. I was going to find out where this road was leading me. I walked into the tent.

      I saw rusting old coolers and no one attending them. I took a Lone Star longneck from one of the coolers and moved over to a bottle opener attached to a piece of string. I popped the top and spoke. I want to pay for this beer. Is there anyone here?

      The place seemed deserted. I could see that the sun was beginning to set and it would be getting dark very soon. Just then a row of coolers lit up with bare light bulbs coming to life on what seemed to be christmas light strings. A radio started blaring behind the coolers. Then I saw him. He was an old man sitting in a wooden rocking chair. He just stared at me. I was frozen in his gaze. He then spoke.

      Welcome to the Crossroads Icehouse. The first beer is on the house.

      He was kind of creepy looking and I couldn’t even guess his age. He just sat there rocking and staring at me. He wore a straw hat, the kind negroes in the old south wore. He had a full mouth of teeth and smiled wide to show them. They were so bright that they sort of gleamed or twinkled in the light of the bare bulbs. His eyes were a muddy brown, the color of blood.

      He wore blue jean coveralls and was barefoot. I couldn’t tell if he was black or white or a little of both. His full attention was on me though. He seemed to be trying to read my thoughts. I felt uncomfortable and had to speak.

      I thank you for the beer. It seems empty in here. Is this usual for this time of day?

      He just rocked and stared at me. He was in no hurry to answer me. I was feeling scared and couldn’t help but shiver. It was as if someone had walked on my grave.

      He stared straight at me and said, "Not too many people stop here during the daylight hours. It seems most people that stop here are on there

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